


Before the World Intruded

by MaggieTulliver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieTulliver/pseuds/MaggieTulliver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John does not remember, but he met Sherlock long before he had grown into adulthood. It’s not surprising he doesn’t remember as he was in quite a fevered state. In fact, he had almost died. </p><p>But that was the only way he could have met Sherlock back then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the poem by the same name by Michele Rosenthal.
> 
> Return me to those infant years,  
> before I woke from sleep,
> 
> when ideas were oceans crashing,  
> my dreams blank shores of sand.
> 
> Transport me fast to who I was  
> when breath was fresh as sight,
> 
> my new parts — unfragmented —  
> shielded faith from unkind light.
> 
> Draw for me a figure whole, so different  
> from who I am. Show me now
> 
> this picture: who I was  
> when I began.

John does not remember, but he met Sherlock long before he had grown into adulthood. It’s not surprising he doesn’t remember. He was in quite a fevered state at the time. In fact, he had almost died.

But that was the only way he could have met Sherlock back then.

Sherlock had looked down upon the small boy, his blond curls just visible over the shivering bundle tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, and waited. He indulged himself, letting his fingers run through the soft damp curls in anticipation. It was only when they were near death that he could touch them this way and this little boy was close. The little boy blinked blurrily up at him at the gentle touch before turning back into his pillow with a pained whine.

Perhaps she had heard the faint whimpers from down the hall or perhaps it was just by chance, but John’s mother unexpectedly roused herself from bed to check on the boy. And John had gotten to the hospital in time.

Standing over the boy and surrounded by the sterile white walls of the hospital, Sherlock felt a bit cheated. But he comforted himself with the thought that everyone would be his in the end—even this little boy.

All John remembered of the incident afterwards was that his father had spoken to him softly—more gently than he could ever remember before or even afterwards—and that his mother had let him have as much ice cream as he asked for. Her little baby boy had almost died and she couldn’t shake off the feeling that it had been far too close. She was thankful and he could certainly have all the dessert he wanted. In a fit of jealousy, his sister Harry had dumped a cone of pistachio down the back of his shirt.

That was all John remembered. But Sherlock remembered the brush of warm gold against his fingers and he waited.

That was not the last time Sherlock had seen John. He caught glimpses of him again and again. He saw the boy, his hair darkening to a mousy brown but no less remarkable, standing strangely heartbroken over the crushed body of an unfamiliar small bird half plastered to the black asphalt in front of his house. And he saw John as a young medical student at Bart's quite often. After all, those halls were familiar grounds to one such as Sherlock. But he couldn’t touch John. Not until Afghanistan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John in Afghanistan. 
> 
> John almost dies (it seems to be a habit).

Someone is dying. 

Sherlock studies the face of the young man. His unlined face is fast growing pale beneath the tan and the sun, a blinding white in the sky, is reflected in his wide unblinking eyes. His heart is stuttering to a slow stop, unable to continue pumping without the necessary blood which is even now steadily staining the dirt below. Sherlock watches somewhat bemusedly as John presses his hands into the still gushing wound at the dying man’s neck. It seems to Sherlock a thankless task and he wonders how it is that John still cares. 

With a new trickle of blood escaping between John’s fingers at each pulse, he can’t risk letting go to search for the extra first aid kit he knows is somewhere in his gear. John can feel something warm and wet trickling down his face. It’s too thick to be sweat.

John swears, “Bloody hell! Hold on, Chris, hold on.” He bends his head forward to wipe the blood on his right shoulder, all the while pressing down and trying to push Chris’s lifeblood back into his unwilling body. 

Keeping his hands steady at Chris’s neck, John calls around desperately for a medic. “Medic!” A fresh burst of gunfire swallows his cries. And John realizes that help may be long in coming and may very well be too late.

“It’s ok, Chris. Just…just hold on a sec.” John tries to keep his voice warm and calm as he speaks. He wills Chris to live. “It’s all right. Everything will be just ok. Just hold on.”

Sherlock knows this is a lie—at least for the Second Lieutenant Christopher Walker. He can see that the young man has already died. His heart has stopped. He no longer breathes. The electric synapses of his brain no longer fire. He is dead in all senses of the word, just as he should be. 

And as the trickle of blood beneath his fingers slows to nothing, John cannot help but accept the cold fact of the young man’s death too. He wipes his suddenly shaking hands on the knees of his trousers, already soaked red from kneeling next to Chris. They’ll soon be darkening to a rusty brown under the unforgiving heat of the Afghani sun. 

John uses his rifle to shift back onto his feet. As captain he still has work to do. 

“Captain! Get down!” 

If Sherlock had a heart, his pulse would be skyrocketing in anticipation as John throws himself back down to the ground, clouds of disturbed dust exploding behind him. 

Without Chris to distract him, John feels naked crouching ineffectively amongst the small rocks out in the open. They would be of no use if the shooter decides to try for him again. And as if to prove this point, another bullet pings on a rock not far to his right and John winces at the ricochet. This road was supposed to have been cleared. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Murphy and Evans huddled against the side of one of the transport vehicles rolled onto its side. It’s the nearest source of cover. Stealing himself by taking a deep breath, John burst onto his feet to run towards them. He can hear a new barrage of shots cracking behind him as he runs. 

His left shoulder explodes in a white hot burst of pain and John cries out. He can no longer feel the ground underneath his feet. He’s down. Something warm and wet—blood, he realizes—is seeping into his uniform and the dirt below. He stares blankly up at the sky trying to breathe through the pain. The sun is blindingly bright but John can’t look away. He has the feeling that if he closes his eyes now he may never open them again. 

“Captain!” Dazed, John wanders why everything sounds so strangely muffled. 

A fresh wave of pain rolls through him and John screams. Someone is dragging him up by his left arm. It’s Murphy, John realizes and he tries to help but his legs crumple beneath him. And Murphy is forced to take on John’s whole weight as he stumbles the last few steps towards the transporter. 

Sherlock watches the man carrying John to safety. It may be for naught. The bullet has nicked the subclavian artery and blood is rapidly seeping into John’s chest cavity. Sherlock follows. 

John feels nauseous as Murphy applies pressure to the wound. Murphy’s saying something but John can’t quite make out what it is. 

His eyes are still open and he sees something strange. A blurry figure leaning over him, a pale hand stretched out towards John’s hair. John can’t tell exactly what the figure is wearing but it certainly isn’t military mandated body armor or any other uniform he recognizes. In fact, the figure seems to waver strangely at the edges and John’s eyes have a hard time focusing on him. John would wonder whether his sight is going except he has no obvious difficulty focusing on Murphy’s worried face. 

John turns once more towards the mysterious figure. He can make out a pair of curious grey eyes staring back down at him. They seem familiar somehow. It must be one of his men, John decides. But why is he petting his hair? 

Though it’s curious that he couldn’t feel it before, John can feel him now—the soft scratch of fingers against his scalp. It’s certainly strange but it is comforting in a way. 

John thinks he can hear someone coughing wetly in the background and it takes a moment for him to realize that it is probably him. He is shaking. He knows it’s not logical; He feels cold even though he can still clearly see the sun is glaring in the sky. Murphy’s checking his radial pulse and begins to panic. Hemorrhagic shock then. Murphy probably knows that his chances of survival are shrinking. 

“Please,” John struggles to rasp out. Evans is pulling Murphy’s kit open, scattering its contents on the ground in his hurry. 

“Please, what?” And though he can’t understand anything Murphy’s saying, he can make out the figure’s words just fine. It’s almost as if the words are spoken right into his ear—the voice deep, cold, and strangely intimate.

John realizes that this cannot be one of his men. He doesn’t recognize the voice. 

His sight is growing dim, everything darkening despite the early hour and the sun. John can’t feel his legs anymore or anything else for that matter except the cool weight of this stranger’s hand in his hair. His lids are so heavy. It seems a battle just to keep them open as John desperately stares into those grey eyes. 

“Please…let me live.” 

And John looses the battle to keep his eyes open. 

Sherlock can’t help but feel disappointed as he stares down into John’s face. He doesn’t know why he had been so intrigued by the golden haired little boy more than a dozen years ago. John’s life is ending like countless other soldiers and men he has collected before—unwilling and confused, begging for more time. How pedestrian. How common. How boring. How dull. John is now just another dead man.

As Sherlock loosens his fingers from John’s hair, he imagines the dark fog of apathy stealing over him once more like a dull knife sliding home. It’s unbearable. Sherlock can’t stand it. 

So Sherlock breaks the rule. 

Stretching out his hand--he can still feel the faint warmth of John's hair against his fingers--he takes a hold of the balance and twists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone willing to beta or brit-pick?   
> Please let me know. 
> 
> I know nothing about the military or medicine so if anyone notices something off please let me know.


End file.
